Tour 2016 - Chicago (Day 17)

"We’ve been told Chicago is a town you have to earn, and whether that’s really true for all, it certainly has been for us."

Ranking Cheese Doodle: Grippos Cheese Nibs – I’ve been saving these until the end of the tour because they’re my favorite and I wanted to experience the depth and breadth of what this country has to offer before I threw them in the mix. Grippos is a regional Cincinnati company most famous for their Barbeque Potato Chips (crisps) which are arguably the best as well. You’ll be undoubtedly disinterested to know that they are easily the best!
Texture: Not rough, but not as dense as a Cheeto. They actually have some give when you bite into them.

Flavor: Plenty of orange cheese powder that tastes like what you get on cheese popcorn. Not overly cheddar-y but not tasting of fakeness either.

Idiocy from the Van:“Summer Sausage signed my yearbook!”

We had to get some sleep. The recent drives had been all day affairs with shows at the end of most of them, and we were exhausted. Not leaving KC until noon meant probably not getting a soundcheck in Chicago, but you have to weigh the cost benefits. Thus, somewhat grimly, we got on our way. The drive looked increasingly like home; bigger trees, fields of corn, enormous white windmills, etc. The only notable thing was we were approaching Chicago in a way we hadn’t before and traffic wasn’t too bad. I personally became almost suicidally bored writing that sentence so I apologize for any of you having to read it.

This picture was the highlight of the drive. I spotted it near the dumpsters at a Starbucks. I’ve entitled it, “Ernest Hemmingway’s Baby Shoes – Fuck You.”

It’s taken a long time to get anywhere in Chicago for us. We’ve been told Chicago is a town you have to earn, and whether that’s really true for all, it certainly has been for us. We started to notice things were changing when we sold out the Red Line Tap, a small room in the very northernmost part of the city. They were lovely to us up there but it felt like it was time to try a bigger venue.

The Empty Bottle is a legendary club* and we were excited to play there but of course anxious as to whether enough people would show up. From the moment we arrived you could tell these were people who knew how to do their job. Everything was anticipated, pertinent information given before we asked, everyone just on it and super professional. The first band were called Calliope and nailed the Black Angels vibe. It’s not Chuck’s thing but you have to respect a lead singer willing to rock the denim shirt unbuttoned to his navel. The second band were North By North and they were really good too. The bands we’ve played with this tour have been consistently top notch, which asshole I may be, is umm… great.

Instead of a pre-show tipple most, no actually all of us, went next door to get coffee. I was mentally feeling fine and dandy like sour candy, but physically felt filled with lead. By the time the second band finished though, the club was packed. It was such a relief. The joy, energy, and enthusiasm the crowd gave to us was like a wave, and the whole show felt triumphant. It’s a funny thing when the feedback loop between the crowd and the band grows with each song. It can’t be forced but it’s magic when it happens.

We played a three song encore (I think) and the audience kept clapping for more. It was surreal. I’m not sure we’ve ever had a reaction like that. We were completely spent though and just sat in the green room feeling like assholes. After leaving the stage with “Ceremony” still ringing, it was like what could we possibly do that wouldn’t be a let down? So we sat in our little room quietly begging the sound guy to turn on the house music so we could go from feeling guilty to processing this amazing experience.

We got to our hotel at about 3:00 am and were greeted by this devil doll.

The rooms were super cool and we had a view of the Sears Tower, which would’ve been amazing if I had been awake for more than 30 minutes of our stay there.

Tomorrow is Louisville - the last show of this leg of the tour.

*Go to the chicagoreader.com and search for An Oral History of the Empty Bottle. It’ll give you some idea.

Tour 2016 - Kansas City (Day 16)

“I don’t care if they use a BB gun and it takes two hours, it’ll still be better than a drum circle..”

Ranking Cheese Doodle:

Moon Cheese – Cheddar – An audience member brought a bag of these to our Denver show. You can find them at Starbucks but they are not puffed cheese doodles. No, they are nuggets of dehydrated cheese. That’s it.
Texture: They’re pretty crunchy and a little greasy so all good there. It’s the flavor that’s troubling.
Flavor: There is the taste of cheese rolling around, albeit that nub of the cheese that escaped the plastic wrap and was exposed to the air. No, it’s another hard to pin down flavor that defines the experience. I described it as earthy or musty, but Chuck used the word barnyard. He described it as tasting like the 4H barn, sort of a dirty straw flavor.

Idiocy from the Van: “Do the drapes match the curtains?” and/or “Does the couch match the davenport?”

Today was guaranteed to be a long day. The upside to staying at a hotel 40 minutes west of downtown Denver was we got to have a taste* of the Rockies as we followed a whitewater stream down to beginning of the end of things worth looking at out the window. People who travel this way mostly complain about Kansas, but eastern Colorado can break your spirit before you even get there. There are moments when you get an unbroken vista of golden grasses spreading out to the horizon, and you find yourself humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” with the strangers around you, chest proudly raised, face facing the sun, wind rippling the hair in your ears. But mostly it’s a grind. To make things more awful Chuck and Lisa had succumbed to the stomach bug or road gut, whatever it was, and were hating life.

Since there is no way to make the drive interesting I will relay a few stories that were told to me later or didn’t fit at the time.

"A baguette is a small piece of bread."  - Panera employee to Olie 

In Portland the sound guy was named Count something or other. Honestly, as soon as you hear the word Count being used as a name your brain freezes as you try to process if he really just said that was his name. When he introduced himself to Lisa he said, “Hi! I’m your sound guy Count.” Lisa heard, “Hi! I’m your sound guy. Count!” She responded, “1, 2, 3, 4.”

At another time Lisa and John were being talked at by a man who insisted on telling them his life story. The gist was that he had recently informed his wife that he thought he might want a divorce. Apparently she responded something along the lines of, “Yeah, that sounds good.” He had gone from being sad and concerned to being pissed that she apparently wanted one too. John and Lisa said the guy had been talking to them unbroken for at least five minutes by this time. Lisa, attempting to be kind said, “Well maybe this means someday you can be friends again,” He looked right at her and said, “To be honest I have no interest in anything you have to say.” John and Lisa just broke out laughing, turned and walked away.

In Boise, as I was trying to coax the crowd a little closer by comparing them to wild raccoons, the conversation eventually led to someone in the audience yelling that there was going to be a drum circle at someone’s farm after the show and that we could come. Chuck responded, “I’d rather someone shoot me in the head than go to one of those.” He looked thoughtful for a second and followed up with, “I don’t care if they use a BB gun and it takes two hours, it’ll still be better than a drum circle.” The audience member later assured us he had been joking. Chuck did not.

Tales from selling merch:

“What’s your smallest size?”
“Well..small is our smallest size.”

Anonymous quote: “I used to play poker with a schizophrenic in the psych ward. He… they cheated so bad.”

And then when we got to Kansas City a weird thing happened. I was in a good mood. I have no idea where it came from but it was a good night for it. There was an Ethiopian place across the street and some lentil samosas and plantains revived me. The venue, Davey’s Uptown Rambler’s Club, was exactly the kind of place where I would hang out if I lived here. It was run by a cheerful old guy and equally cheerful not so old woman. He ran the bar by himself and she did everything else. I wondered later if it was because I was subconsciously happy to be back in the Midwest, or if the building was just a peaceful place.

Also contributing to the goodness was getting a chance to play with our old friends Schwervon. They are a duo, Nan on drums and Matt on guitar. They are the kind of nice that doesn’t make you want to punch them in the face for exposing your own failings, but rather the kind that makes you want to be nice too. Their songs are smart, interesting, and thoroughly enjoyable. The first act of the night was a trio called the Cave Girls and their music again made me happy. I watched their whole set, which is rare because I’m usually too squirrely before playing (or after playing) (or ever) to sit still. I was trying to figure out how to describe their music and was leaning towards ‘70’s American punk with that 1950’s influence that was present then, but Chuck said it was more like the 1960’s Girls in the Garage compilation. It was a lovely show. We’ve a ways to go before we pack the house in KC but it felt like a good start.

Tomorrow is Chicago.

*damp wool and pemmican

Tour 2016 - Denver (Day 15)

"John slept in the van and the other six of us crammed in one room old school style. That’s the thing about nostalgia – it only exists if you never actually go back to the good old days.."

Ranking Cheese Doodle:

Flavor Mill Buffalo Blue Cheese Flavored Cheese Curls – Excellent with a caveat - You might remember Flavor Mill, the suspected off-brand of some mysterious major corporate doodle manufacturer. The caveat is that when you open the bag it smells like someone barfed. I like them though. They make me pleasantly uneasy. Like climbing the rope in gym class.

Texture: Perfect.

Flavor: Lots of finger sticking orange powder that tastes of a distant echo of a memory of blue cheese.

 Idiocy from the Van: I bet Stevie Nicks leaves a snail trail of glitter. (Uttered by Lisa so don’t get all in a huff.)

It’s a 12-13 hour drive from Boise. Oh, did you know that it’s pronounced Boysee not Boyzee? I didn’t. I feel they should change it. Think about it. Which would you rather watch: Boyce in the Hood or Boyz in the Hood? Duh. Anyway, another oddity with our time in Boise was that we ended up paying more for one room than we had for multiple rooms the whole tour. Turns out there was a soccer tournament in town and there were next to no rooms. John slept in the van and the other six of us crammed in one room old school style. That’s the thing about nostalgia – it only exists of you never actually go back to the good old days.

We had hoped to stay at Moab and see some arches, but once again the practicalities of ensuring a timely arrival at the show meant we decided to take the fastest route. We set the goal of Rawlins, Wyoming as our destination because that meant we’d have a little under four hours to get to Denver the next day. Lisa had done a little research on Rawlins and discovered the story of Big Nose George.

George “Big Nose” Parrott was a wild west outlaw - robbing trains, killing lawmen, having a gang that is pursued by posses, etc. He made the classic blunder whereupon you get drunk and brag loudly about having killed people. Thus, and inevitably he was captured. He used a pocket knife and a sandstone to file down his shackles in an escape attempt from the Rawlins Penitentiary. With his keen wits and steely eyes he quickly formed a plan that involved bashing his jailer on the head with the shackles and then getting caught by the jailers wife. The townspeople, incensed by his lawlessness formed a lawless mob and broke into the jail.

Having sprung "Big Beak" Parrott they promptly strung him from the nearest pole. Now this where the story gets interesting. The local medical professional wanted to examine his brain for clues to his criminal mind, so they cut off the top of his skull and gave the lid to a 15-year old medical assistant who would eventually use it as an ash tray. They then removed several swatches of his skin (including a nipple he wrote salaciously) and sent them to a tannery in Denver to be turned into a medical bag and a pair of shoes. The medical examiner then wore the shoes to his inauguration when he was elected governor of Wyoming. The rest of Parrott’s body was stuck in a whiskey barrel, filled with salt and buried in the back yard.

One of the frustrations with this tour is that with no days off and the enormous distances between shows there has been almost no time for exploration. Obviously it was worth waking up early to look about Rawlins. It was about a mile walk into town, passing a virtual (actual?) time-line of shuttered motels from decades past. The Carbon County Museum with the skin shoes wasn’t open until 10 so I walked to the Frontier Prison figuring it would be a reconstructed log cabin with some bars for windows. Oh no, it was way better than that. It was the actual Wyoming State Penitentiary that had been in use until the early 1980’s. Ignore the nightmare that is our current racism for profit correctional approach and just enjoy with me the time when incarceration was fun and fraught with adventure! I didn’t have time for the tour but went through the museum. The first part of the museum was dedicated to the innumerable escape attempts. One of the inmates created such a sophisticated skeleton key it could open almost half the cells. There were shelves full of all the shanks that had been confiscated. Perversely there were hanks of hanging ropes displayed with the photos of the terminal end behind them. It was fascinating.

Then on to the Carbon County Museum. It was a more sophisticated affair with activities for children, carpet under foot, frontier doilies in recreated rooms with mannequins knitting in rocking chairs. But even with all the attempts to educate and inform they know why people are there. The kindly, prototypical elderly lady volunteer welcomed me and then asked pointedly, “Is there something specific you’re here to see?” “The shoes.” “They’re right over there – don’t take any pictures dear.” The shoes were tiny and just weird. What the hell were they thinking? Also displayed was his earless death mask, his proud nose only somewhat diminished in death. I pretended to look at everything else, occasionally emitting a murmured “fascinating” or “well swap my spit and cook me for dinner – I did not know that.” Then I left and walked back to the hotel.

I was looking forward to seeing the big, pointy, green and snowy Rockies but our route seemed to skirt them and we entered Denver with a whimper. We were playing in the bar end of a much bigger venue called the Summit. The sound man, who spoke with the soft rounded tones of a death-bed priest packed into the body of a pre-steroidal Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson made us sound great to the crowd, although the sound on stage was like having an ice pick jabbed into my ear. I should’ve communicated more and we probably could have made it better, but I was starting to feel poorly and we Midwesterners really do find it unseemly to make a fuss. We all had dinner at a Spanish tapas restaurant which was quite a lot of fun and then I tried walking around downtown Denver. I was feeling achy and my stomach was bad, so I gave up and slept in the van until show time.

The total number of people who had come to see us our last two visits to Denver could fit in R. Kelly’s closet, so we were delighted by an actual audience this time around. I wasn’t able to muster much audience interaction or jumping around, but we played pretty well. The audience was super sweet and there were even a few folks who had been at both of our previous shows.

Through a small Priceline miscalculation we were staying 40 minutes in the wrong direction at an Indian casino. If it’s not supposed to be called an Indian casino then I apologize. I think the Cleveland Indians should change their logo so I figure I’m coming out at least even in the cultural sensitivity department. Olie was quite excited to see a casino in action and feeling poorly or not, I was delighted to accompany him.

The experience started off promisingly as accompanying us in the elevator was a goblet of wine carrying gambler with a dead eye that pointed northwest. We dropped our bags off in the room but as soon as we approached the action, a security professional approached us and asked for Olie’s ID. When he saw it was British he said “Follow me” with a depth of seriousness usually reserved for U.N. subcommittees on the illegal trade of Faberge’ eggs. We followed him to his security podium and watched as he ran the ID through what I dearly hope was Interpol. He then actually held the ID up to Olie’s face before allowing us to enter. We walked the outer ring of the casino, organized like the playing pieces in Trivial Pursuit with a wigwam motif floating above it. The top level was filled almost exclusively with those video monitors that pass for slot machines. After a bit Olie waved his hand expansively and said, “Is it all the same shit?” “Pretty much.” He shook his head and we continued down to the lower level.

I don’t have the personality for gambling. I’m not sure I can even imagine the concept of disposable income. Additionally, I really don’t need my worldview that we’re all fucked reinforced by a machine programmed to ensure I will lose. I did once go to an Atlantic City casino long enough ago that they still had mechanical slot machines with the arm you pulled and the feeling of physical mechanisms clattering around. It was kind of fun, and the sound of the coins hitting the metal tray oddly satisfying. Down on the bottom floor we found the café and decided on an expensive late night snack. While waiting for his food Olie was approached by two skeevy, well drunk dudes who had a crumpled piece of paper with a secret code on it. They said, with an urgent lack of personal space, that if we took that code up to the counter it would automatically get us amazing deals. I really didn’t like them and suspect they have pestilence on their pee pees.

Then when I went to get some water I overheard a man with one leg having an argument with his bipedal friend that went something like this: “You’re gonna lose.” “Just let me try.” You’re gonna lose.” “C’mon man, just let me try.” “You’re gonna to lose.” “No, no, no, you don’t know that. Please. I want to try.” “You’re going to lose.” I never heard who won, the wheedling loser or the implacable pragmatist. At about this point Olie looked around and said, “It’s kind of sad isn’t it?” We walked around a few minutes more, Ollie said, “Fuck it” and we went to get some sleep.

Tomorrow is Kansas City.

Tour 2016 - Wenatchee to Boise (Days 13-14)

"It was Sunday, Father’s Day, heading away from big cities – what could go wrong? .."

Ranking Cheese Doodle:

Jalapeno Poppers Puffed Corn Snack – Good if you like this sort of thing. I have to admit I’m beginning to regret this whole doodle census. As I open another bag it’s with a rather grim sense of duty. Like sex with your second cousin, which seemed so great when you were sixteen, but now 30 years later just seems desultory. Anyway, this doodle is fine, mostly about the burn, which made my stomach hurt.

Texture: Actually pretty good. Dense but not stale.

Flavor: Who cares? After the first one your mouth is on fire.

Idiocy from the Van: "Why thank you Marriott, for your complimentary pork cylinders soaked in brine."

I’m tired of being two days behind. Today is the day I will triumphantly half-ass two days of the tour so I can fulfill my imaginary deadlines. (didn't happen) We woke up late and lazy and rolled out at the last minute possible to maintain the illusion of being on time to the house show. It was Sunday, Father’s Day, heading away from big cities – what could go wrong? Accidents, shut-down highway, the usual. We had planned to stop at the Twin Peaks waterfall but now we were an hour behind schedule so we just had to make a beeline for Wenatchee. Oh, and driving north through Washington State is beautiful, so green, with babbling (say babbling five times*) brooks and cascading cataracts just willy-nilly all over the place.

This would be our third time playing Wenatchee and the second at Scott and Jenny’s house. The only reason we come up here is because of these dear people. And it’s a treat. Wenatchee is founded near the confluence of the Wenatchee and Columbia Rivers. It’s in a valley and surrounded by rolling, yellow grassy hills. Usually I go for a walk in the hills as it’s a lovely meditative place.

Tonight we just had time to set-up, eat dinner, watch the Cavs win the NBA Finals, and then play. Scott has a low stage in one end of the living room and had hired in a sound system and guy to run it. The stage was small but still bigger than say Manchester. Chris Brokaw changed his set to emphasize his more singer-songwriter side and it was a lovely, moving set. We’ve gotten a lot better at modulating our set to smaller rooms. We added some other songs like, “Little Paper Birds, and Gene, I Dream,” which we don’t play too often. And being able to hear everything so clearly while playing quietly led to some different versions of our songs that hopefully made the evening seem unique to the 40-50 people there. Unfortunately the dark clouds of intestinal distress that had been stacking up on the horizon all evening threatened to open up. It was a long night. At one point when laying horizontally really wasn’t working, I wrapped myself in a blanket and slept in a wicker chair on the patio.

We had to get on the road early if we wanted to make Boise on time so we bid adieu to the world’s greatest pug, Kildy– the World’s Greatest Pug!

I don’t know if it’s because I was in rather course fettle, but the drive to Boise was not the most interesting. Washington and Idaho are renowned for their natural beauty but this route studiously avoided all of it. By taking this route you are saying that you love and accept the entirety of Washington and Idaho even on days when they’re feeling bloated and wearing Old Navy extra large sweatshirts. Of course I’m being silly. There were some stunning vistas and canyons** along the Columbia River at the start and some cool Close Encounters rock formations at the end. It was just the middle bit.

We’d been hearing that Boise was a cool city for several days and damned if it wasn’t. It’s a pretty small town and it was a Monday night, but there were people out and about. Right next to the club was a vinyl records, Archie McPhee, rock t-shirt, café kind of place. The club, called the Neurobar, was badass. 1950’s round-edged triangular tables, red lit long bar, a huge flickering crown on stage, and all the cool kids smoking cigarettes at tables out front. We had dinner at a place called Even Stevens and walked around a little. If I were to live in the southwestern corner of Idaho and craved an urban setting Boise would be top on my list.

I asked the sound guy, who was a nervous sort but awesome at his job, about the scene and he said it was OK but he was worried about it. He said all the people in the veteran bands had hit the stage of life where they moved out to the suburbs, had kids, and only played one or two shows a year. Not too long ago there had been a thriving DIY all-ages scene but the city had pretty much shut it down. Put all together and there was no one or nowhere to help bring the young bands along and teach them how act. He said it’s always obvious when a local band was on the bill because they were so slow getting on and off stage and unable to adjust for the size of the room or tenor of the bill. He said he had come from Minneapolis where you had to have your shit together. It sounds a little like sour grapes on paper, but the sense I got was that he really wanted Boise bands to do well and not seem provincial.

We were playing with a lovely, quirky pop band from Baltimore called Outer Spaces, and it was our last show with Chris Brokaw. In case you didn’t look up Chris when I suggested it earlier,*** he is a quietly brilliant musician. He’s as likely to be the drummer as he is the guitar player in a band, and is a wonderful songwriter and singer as well. He was the first person to cover one of our songs and it meant the world to us. He was delightful company in our packed van and possessing of a deep reservoir of hilarious stories from a life lived on the road.

And one of the big changes on this tour has been taking bigger charge of the line-ups and working with bands we love. Not only is it awesome to hear American Werewolf Academy, Chris, Schwervon, and the Fervor on this leg but it feels like we’re able to give the audience a whole evening that we know will be enjoyable. On a nightly basis people sweetly say to us how dismayed they are that there aren’t lots more people at the show and that we should be huge. It is a very kind inclination, but things really are building nicely for us in many ways. One of them is this ability to travel with these awesome bands. The other is a nice uptick in the quality of the venues, stages, sound engineers etc. We’ve had consistent good sound and played some very cool venues, and that makes a big difference. We’re doing all right I think.

This being our first time in Boise, a Monday night, and perhaps a disinclination to see old people play unfashionable music, we had our smallest crowd since Tulsa. As is often the case with nights like these, it was a little more interactive and sillier than some shows. Of course playing to a packed house is ideal, but I love these shows for two reasons. Typically with a small town and a small crowd the people who come to see you are fervent fans who are thrilled that you came to their town. It’s impossible to not feel proud when you hear what your music means to people. And that leads me to the next reason. The song that typically gets the best response night after night is “Teenage Wasteland.” And the thought that we could potentially be that voice for someone feeling isolated and alone in their own personal hinterland, the chance that we could do for someone what rocknroll did for us at different times of our lives, provide a sense of possibility, identity, catharsis, community, acceptance feels important. You don’t need to know if that happens on a given night because we’ve all had our conversion experiences. We know it’s real thing.

So thank you Boise. It was lovely.

Tomorrow is a drive day.

*Yes you are.

** Or were they gorges? When does a gorge become a canyon?

***Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother.

Tour 2016 - Seattle (Day 12)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: Kroger Puffed Cheese Curls – Almost identical to the H-E-B store brand. I suspect collusion.

Texture: Excellent - Borderline tear your mouth up.

Flavor: Pretty damn good. These are an excellent value. Like a Robert Parker rated Beaujolais of 89 on sale for $12.99

Idiocy from the Van: Have you read the bio “Tom Jones’ Testicles by Emersom Bigguns?

We had a wonderful evening in Portland, a friend of Joe’s got us two very nice rooms at a hotel on the river, and we were going to play live on KEXP at 11:00 this very day. All was exceedingly well except that we were only going to be able to get four and a half hours sleep before we needed to leave for Seattle. Everyone was fine with it, no one was complaining. The honor of playing for the mighty KEXP trumps everything. Still, even with a little bit of, “This is going to hurt,” going on, everyone was in good spirits.

John somehow managed to duct tape a bag to Olie’s hand, tomatoes were thrown from a balcony at John down on the veranda as he was smoking. Considering the exhaustion, the incredibly tight confines, what with six or seven people all touching cotton covered shoulders in the van for days on end, it’s amazing how much silliness and gasping for air laughing happens on a daily basis. Everybody has their days of crankiness, gloominess, or loonimess, but I think we’re getting better at knowing how to deal with it without necessarily infecting the whole van or causing a ruckus. Mostly it involves going for walks and just getting away from each other. I mean we’re not home yet. There could still be epic meltdowns, and/or blowouts, but I also think that having Olie along has been a major factor. He’s an expert at lightening the mood.

This is the third time for the full band to be playing KEXP and the first time in their new studio. Our last session was even picked as one of the best public radio performances of whatever year that was. I also contend that almost every fan of the band can trace their knowledge of us back to either Robert Christgau or KEXP. Today would not ascend to those hallowed heights. Today inspiration would be on the loading dock waving a cigarette about airily whilst talking about Sam Peckinpah, while our old friend Sturdy Competence was running around the studio kissing us all squarely on the lips. We didn’t play badly I don’t think. It just took longer than we had to shake off the stunned baby seal** quality our tiredness infected us with. The new building and studio housing KEXP is beautiful. There’s a café’ attached with excellent coffee, they are right in the thick of a bunch of artistic organizations, and they have a 30 year lease. The only thing I miss is the little performance space. We were practically playing on top of each other, and we as a band always play better when we feel like everything is all mixed together into one sound. It’s the best. And it goes without saying that the folks at KEXP are the best as well. They are so sweet and so good at their jobs.

No tourism for us today. We went straight to the house our friend graciously lets us take over whenever we’re in Seattle, ate some Washington cherries, started laundry, and slunk off to our corners to take naps.

We were playing the El Corazon, which used to be the Off-Ramp back in the old days. Last time we played the small, connected room they now call the Funhouse. The space is rectangular with the stage along one of the long sides so it’s not particularly deep but the audience can spread out. The last time I was here I was overwhelmed with the ghosts in the place. Nirvana and most every Seattle band played there at some point. I remember thinking about all the costs associated with being in a band and living out your dreams. The addictions, deaths, broken marriages, poverty, and hearing loss all associated with this way of making art begs the question: What the hell am I doing out here? I can’t point to anything that doesn’t sound selfish. My family doesn’t get anything out of it, no money, vacations, monkey butlers, nothing. Just an absentee dad and husband. However, this time the ghosts were away. Maybe they’re like Santa Claus and dissipate into mean shades unless someone believes in rocknroll. Tonight though, it just felt like a regular club and we had a show to play.

We had dinner at a wonderful hole in the wall Thai noodle place called In the Bowl. The food was so freaking delicious. Oh, and even though it’s all vegetarian, no one seemed to mind. Afterwards everyone went back to the club and I went for a walk into the Capital Hill District. Broadway, the main street through the district, seems to be mostly a bar/restaurant entertainment area so there was a certain percentage of party people there. All told it was a nice, fairly affluent part of town. I came across a park with a super cool fountain that was like water cascading down a mountain and flowing down a cement riverbed until it got to a pond. I saw people playing bicycle polo, which looked difficult and smug. As I walked down the hill and over the Denny Bridge I was struck once again by how a highway and some elevation can create such disparate environments. Under the bridge there is a size-able group of homeless people and/or runaways, (they seemed young) lots of evidence of drug use, a shelter for at risk youth, and a general air of grittiness.

I had a nice talk with an old school chum of Lisa’s who now lives in the area, about something I sensed in regards to the homeless population. I said that it seemed as if people in Seattle, Portland, and even San Francisco had a more tolerant view of the homeless population compared to the Midwest. She agreed almost before I finished my sentence, “Oh yeah, in the Midwest they’re less than human – something to be hidden or gotten rid of, but out here it’s like they are people who have different needs or maybe even made a lifestyle choice.” She talked about how Seattle is going to start emulating the San Francisco model where they take empty housing and convert it into places where the homeless can store their stuff when they have job interviews or the like. She talked about the circuit of teenaged runaways that go from Tacoma to Seattle and Portland, riding the commuter trains. Seattle has even gone so far as to create places where people with campers and tents can stay for the night as long as they follow the rules. And I wonder - what accounts for the difference in attitude? From hostile in part of the country to tolerant in another, what has to happen for a culture to have basic respect for all humans? What kind of empathy has to be taught for people’s first instinct to be that maybe the people they meet are actually doing the best they can? Make a list in your head as to why someone is living on the street. Mental illness, abuse, addiction, lack of education, and yes, somewhere down there you might have to include the line, “Because it’s so fucking awesome!” Different strokes and all. Don’t get me wrong though; I don’t enjoy people asking me for money. I get nervous when erratic people approach me. I’m no saint. I do think however, a fair marker of a society is how they treat their most vulnerable. And there will always be vulnerable among us.

It was a lovely night in the El Corazon. The Purrs, a venerable rock band together now for something like 16 years, played awesome melodic rock. Chris Brokaw of course owned it, and I think we played pretty good too. Seattle is always our biggest night on a Western tour. It’s a big room and there were a couple a hundred people in there. Playing the old Off-Ramp, packing the place, feeling the love, eating cupcakes and having a top shelf tequila with the bar staff afterwards, generally enjoying the fantasy of this life for approximately 22 hours.

We went back to our loaned house and I happily listened to Otis Redding records on a beautiful turntable well into the night.

Tomorrow is Wennatchee.

*We’re a strict no artificial fibers kind of band.

**I’m actually working on a children’s book called “Baby Seal Goes To Baseball Camp.” It will be a cautionary tale about making sure one’s dreams have some basis in reality.

Tour 2016 - SF to Portland (Days 10-11)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: Smallwood’s Harvest Spicy Cheese Nuggets – Excellent for a spicy varietal. People have begun to bring me doodles. This is an excellent development. These are more like a bag of curds in puff form but legit.

Texture: Kind of chewy, like stale Pirate’s Booty.

Flavor: Spicy and salty. The best of the spicy ones.

Idiocy from the Van: Chile Kim Carne (courtesy of Chris Brokaw)

I’m way behind with the blog now. It’s been a couple of days of curvy roads and very little sleep. The morning after our very late check-in at the fancy hotel with the kitty litter smelling lobby, I walked across a field to the old looking “round barn” for which the hotel was named. It wasn’t actually round but some sort of –agon. (I didn’t count the sides.) I came upon a plaque that told me the barn had been built by a Japanese Samurai who then became a prominent viticulturist in the Napa Valley. I gave the band this info in the van but no one gave a shit. It’s like they’re dead inside.

We wanted to take the 101 because part of the fun of this tour is showing Olie the country. It’s such a gorgeous drive, but by doing so it meant another very long day in the van. We needed to get near Eugene in order to make getting to Portland reasonable. I tried to write but by dint of following the geographical contours of our beloved continent I couldn’t keep the keyboard under my fingers, and it was a semi-car sick kind of drive anyway. We stopped at a Safeway, loaded up on groceries, (our attempt to eat fresh and healthy bowed but not yet broken) and made the Avenue of the Giants by mid-afternoon. I’ve said it before but it holds true for me, an hour in the Redwoods is equivalent to a year of Sundays at church. The light filtering through branches so high they don’t even begin where most trees end gives a glow to the preternatural hush. I found a fallen Redwood circled by six of the really old trees. I laid down and stared up and felt like I was surrounded by sentinels watching over and mourning their loss. This being nature and not the ‘Shire or some shit, the death of the tree I was laying on probably created enough light so that the trees surrounding it could finally thrive. Like that dick in “The Giving Tree.” Olie was blown away by the forest. It was lovely to see his reaction and to feel like we’d given him a little gift.

We stopped at Eureka because that’s what we do; we stop. “He who travels fastest travels alone” being practically pornographic in its illicit feelings of unobtainable fantasy. On the other hand, expediency with seven people in one automotive is the equivalent of having your mother walk in on you holding a Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit issue (the one with Elle McPherson) after having just moved home because you flunked out of college. (sad trombone sound) I walked down to the waterfront and found a classic rock cover band on break and the local rock dj giving away prizes to the winner who could correctly answer questions like, “9% of homeowners don’t do this… (the dishes?) No. I won’t dish out any prizes for that answer ha ha. “ (clean the bathroom?) Close enough! So do you clean the bathroom? No? It’s pretty bad when the toilet flushes itself ha ha. I’ve got one more question. Hmmm… let’s pick a good one. Ok, 9% of drivers wish they could do this. (run over your unfunny ass, then back the car over your broken body while blasting “More Than a Feeling” on the radio?) Ooh ouch!! ha ha (Not wear a seatbelt?) You missed that one whole cloth ha ha. (run over your parents before they conceived your bloviated friendless existence?) You must know my ex-wife ha ha. (pee through the eye of a needle into a Capri Sun bag without spilling a drop?) Oh urine trouble for that one ha ha. No the answer is drive naked drive naked. And now back to some great rocknroll.”*

We stopped and communed with the ocean around sunset, and as the sky tipped into blackness the drive took on an air of low-grade terror. Hairpin turns and steep clines (of both the in and de variety) in pitch-blackness sucks. We waited in a short line blinded by emergency vehicle’s flashing lights as they dealt with a car off the road and on its side. We rolled into a hotel of which I have no memory around 2:30 in the morning.

We had an early soundcheck in Portland but with only a two-hour drive and a late check out procured we tried to get some sleep. At 8:30 a.m. a housekeeper came into the room and in the immortal words of Shakespeare said, “Housekeeping.” How is this still a thing? With all the information technology available, networks that stagger the imagination, the only way to ascertain whether a hotel room has been vacated is to make like a Jehovah’s Witness and** knock? I’m not impugning the cleaning staff. That’s a hard job and it’s my understanding they have some serious time constraints put on them. Plus, bad things happen. I know, and I’m sorry. I tried to clean-up. No, I feel the hospitality industry as a whole is under-motivated to improve this one glaring antithesis to the word hospitality. You have one job. Provide a safe and clean place to sleep. Then in an insouciantly perverse twist you design a system that takes away the very thing the customer paid for. It’s like buying a hamburger and then having someone walk around and removing the meat from the bun halfway through the meal. But wait! You say there is a magic card you can place on the door that will guarantee you a peaceful uninterrupted sleep? Sure, but what if you forget, or it falls off, or you walk down the hallway removing all the do not disturb signs from every door in a futile act of rebellion against the impotence you feel in an increasingly cold and isolated world?

We were playing the Star Theater, which had played once before. It’s a beautiful place to play and everyone was very nice there. The last time we played we sat with our equipment on the patio for several hours waiting for a comedy*** show to end. Then we set up in front of the headlining band on the approximately 8 inches of stage lip left us. This time we had the whole stage and it was as luxuriant as softened butter.

After soundcheck Chuck and I went out to do some banking and he remarked that everyone seemed high. And acknowledging this could be a preconceived notion, the rather large indigent population had a different air about them. It was a softer sadness that made me think heroin was still very much a part of the region. Of course there were a lot of teens on the streets with duffel bags and dogs, but more about that later.

I walked all over the downtown and it seemed like a regular, relatively affluent business building fancy storefront kind of place. The hipsters must enclave elsewhere. I spent hours in Powell’s Books, my second favorite bookstore, (The Strand still gets the nod) and bought several books by/about Alexander Von Humboldt, who I’ve decided to become obsessed with.

The show was a blast. Count, the sound engineer, had the stage sound dialed in, and the audience demanded an extra encore.

*Those were all real questions and mostly real answers. Guess which!!

**Look up 141 Things Jehovah's Witness followers cannot do.

*** In the broadest sense of that word.

Tour 2016 - San Francisco (Day 9)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: No Doodles. I had really hung my hopes on artisanal doodles from the hub of the farm to doodle to table movement. The Spanish have long perfected the culinary science of puffing food with their vangaurdia movement, but as in so many things, we lag behind.

Idiocy from the Van: Well I’m off to birth King Kong’s finger.

We had no trouble getting out of L.A. and proceeded north, reading all the handmade signs put forth in battle for the hearts, minds and urinary tracts of the people in the Californian Water Wars. I never visited California before the drought so I can’t compare. For the most part, if it’s green it’s irrigated. I have to not give in to the thought, but I have the same reaction whenever I travel. Seeing the massive drain on natural resources all us people create, seeing our negative impact on the world around us, I get panicky. Not so much an Indian standing on a heap big garbage heap shedding a tear, but more an Edvard Munch keening cry, like a mosquito whining in your ear while trying to memorize the second verse of It’s the End of the World As We know It, “There’s no way this is sustainable! What are we doing! We’re going to die!” The fact that Long John Silvers exists is enough to make one question all of man’s great works, but when I see a special on wild caught Cod or something, do the math* of how many shops they have in this country alone, it’s staggering. On this day we drove by a massive cow yard place. The smell of course was like Satan’s belch on taco Tuesday, the innumerable animals standing only in mud and shit, mind-boggling. And this is nothing in size compared to some I’ve seen in the Midwest. I have no suggestions. I’m not knowledgeable in realities of feeding billions of people. I just worry.

The last time we came west I had an entire day to spend at my leisure in San Francisco and I fell head over heals in love. Thus, I make no claim to objectivity. We pulled up to the Elbo Room in the Mission District, the same place we played last time, around 6:30. This is a great club, lounge-y and perfectly seedy downstairs and an old school, almost elegant performance space upstairs. Golden dragons on either side of the stage should paint the appropriate picture.

While waiting for soundcheck I started walking with eagerness of the England version of myself, got the best cup of coffee this tour so far, and marveled at the incredible murals and awesome mix of people. After check I had an amazing vegan Mexican meal at Gracias Madres. Unfortunately I was beginning to feel the effects of a bout of road stomach coming on. I was eating by myself at the bar and they had us packed in pretty much shoulder to shoulder. As what I hoped was air pressure in my lower half began to bubble like aging refried beans on medium heat, I desperately wished that I wasn’t pinned in by two comely lasses. It may an antiquated notion but I would much rather offer an olfactory amuse bouche to a man’s dinner than a woman’s. Still, we all managed to escape unmolested after a frankly heroic and dexterous clenching of specific unmentionable muscles. And then I walked up Mission Street, which was a little less hipster/boutique driven and more head shop gritty than Valencia. There were certainly more encampments of what I’m sensing is a significant indigent population.

After sitting bent double on the floor in the green room for an hour hoping I wouldn’t need a bucket, we went onstage to a pretty packed house. The lights were set-up so that we couldn’t see many faces, but everyone seemed to have a good time. The sound onstage was perfect and such that I could hear and respond to everyone else. It makes all the difference in the world and Olie remarked afterwards that it was the best we had played yet. Two of the best musicians in Cincinnati, and absolutely wonderful friends for decades, Melissa and Dana surprised us by showing up at the gig. It was a wonderful evening.

We had decided, or rather had the decision thrust upon us, that it was far too expensive to stay near the city. We found a good deal on Priceline for a hotel in Santa Rosa. As usual we paid the extra money to ensure there were two beds in each room. We arrive at 2:30 a.m. and damned if the hotel chose to ignore what they said was a non-binding request. The over-night front desk woman couldn’t have been more helpful but the hotel was sold out. It took a good 40 minutes to get sorted out, with us paying them more money for their room of last resort, which had a pull out couch. At 3:30 in the fucking morning we all finally collapsed into bed.

Tomorrow is yet another drive day. 

*I don’t really do the math. Math is hard.

Tour Diary - Los Angeles (Day 8)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: No Doodles. So what am I to do? Try a random snack from the Hispanic section that’s what. Specifically Tiritas con Chile. Imagine a strawberry licorice rope covered in paprika, citric acid, and cayenne in decreasing order of flavor. Chuck was the first to try and started making a nyuh nyuh sounds like a stooge and then spit it out. I went next and it wasn’t that bad. Much like the stages of grief it started out bitter, moved to sour, then to hot, and finished up sickly sweet. You regret having eaten it and vow never to do so again. I haven’t translated but I think the bag might describe them as divorce sticks.

Idiocy from the Van: To the tune of “Let’s Go Fly a Kite”

“Let’s go lay some pipe, Squat, grunt, and then we wipe.”

This will likely be an ongoing piece of work.

With six hours left to drive until we reached L.A. my gibbet was starting to flibber. Three days solid in the van with no real breaks was starting to wear through the thin veneer that separates us from the illusion of fitting in to a non teeth-gritting, skin-twitching, spittle-spraying, rage-filled society and not. The unvarying terrain didn’t help by settling into an unbroken desert indistinguishable from Mars if one were to put on actual rose-colored glasses.

We arrived at the Silver Lake Lounge slightly early. We had played here before and knew the drill. I’d direct you to the Yelp reviews if you want to get a fuller sense of the experience. The sound guy was nice, the monitors underpowered, the stage set up so that Joe was in a cave in the back of the stage, separated from us more than just emotionally this time. There was no green room so we did a lot of standing around the parking lot waiting for the broth to ripen to the point where soundcheck could happen. Then some pretty good Indian food, and then some more standing around the parking lot. The last time here I had desperately hiked the stretch of Sunset the club is on, looking for Los Angeles, but only found a heterogeneous* mix of shops and restaurants. No matter, by the time we got back from dinner our pal Chris Brokaw had started. Chris has been in a shit-ton of cool bands as well as plying the solo trade for years. We have been playing shows with Chris going back to our first tour. It had been awhile though and we were thrilled to see him. And here’s where it gets exciting. He’s traveling with us for the next five shows as well. In case you’re doing the math and have use of only one hand for some reason, that brings the grand total of people in the van to seven. If we could just somehow cram Pauley Shore in here we would be funnier than the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.**

When we had pulled up there had already been people waiting. We had a crowd bigger than we’d had in Tulsa just for our soundcheck. Some nights take on an energy of their own. The place was packed by the time we took the stage. We’re playing a good portion of the new record this time out, but whenever we played the older songs they sang along so loud they drowned out Lisa on my side of the stage. For a town that does not have a reputation for being warm and fuzzy it was a very sweet and giving crowd we were blessed with this night.

Another bit of sweetness added to the evening was that our dear friend Brooklyn Steve was in attendance. We met him at one of our early shows in NYC where he regaled us with stories of going to see punk shows in the ‘70’s, like the Clash at the Palladium, and a delightful evening shouting out “Peanuts” over and over again at that first Police show. They kept shouting it even after the band played the song until Sting was properly annoyed. Steve would come to every show and we were always delighted to catch up. And when he moved to California a few years back we missed him and his spirit at our shows. I tend to say it ad nauseum but the human need for community and connection is so profound it comes in right after food, shelter, and safety in the heirarchy of needs. Being in a band for a long time these little adopted families occasionally come into existence. This is ultimately what I get from playing music live. Sometimes the connection is just the five of us, but the best nights are when we and the audience become our own little world of misfits. Rocknroll at its best can encapsulate joy, frustration, anger, sex, and solidarity better than any art form. Well, for me at least.

On the way to the hotel we gave Olie a driving tour of Hollywood and Vine, the Chinese Theater, all the landmarks we could manage after a long day. His observation, “It looks a little dodgy” as we drove up Hollywood seemed apt.

Tomorrow is San Francisco.

*The pretension alert went off. Sorry.

**Again my apologies. A colostomy is funnier than the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

Tour 2016 - The Desert (Days 6-7)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: Hill Country Fare Cheese Puffs: Middling

Bought at the same H-E-B store as the Store Brand Intense Cheese Flavored ones, but seemed like the doodle created for their poor cheese flavored snack customers. You know the bag: more clear plastic, duller colors, primitive graphics. I didn’t much like them but everyone else thought they were fine. Obviously this exercise has refined my palette far beyond their plebian tastes.

Texture: Excellent - Well it was.

Flavor: Tasted chemically to me. Much like an over-oaked chardonnay there were strong notes of butter. Rancid oily movie theater butter.

Idiocy from the Van: “Oooh, I adagio’d in my pants a little.”

This is going to be a short, perhaps even cursory posting because we will have spent these two days driving. The entire journey we’re taking is from Austin to Los Angeles. We will still have approximately six hours to drive on day eight just to get into town. In the past we have taken Highway 10 straight across the desert. It’s the quickest route but brutal in its unvarying scenery and desert heat. This time we decided to head northwest out of Austin, eventually hooking up with I-40. I don’t know the difference duration between the two routes, but this way was far more pleasant on the eyes and in availability of services. There was no permanent, border-style roadblock with machine gun armed guards and dogs. We just drove. There weren’t any real highlights, except perhaps for craft hour when we created lifelike sculptures out of red Baby Bell cheese wax. Our goal was Albequerque and it took us 13 hours to get there. The terrain was far more green than the 10 and mostly what we decided to call rolling prairie.

The next day we had a choice. Either another 13 hour day and make it to the outskirts of L.A., or break it up by stopping around Phoenix. We chose the latter, and out of the corner of our eyes, the way one sees a nebula through a telescope, we checked to see if we could afford the amazing, awesomely refurbished 1950’s era hotel, the Valley Ho. We stayed there last tour when John treated the band to a little luxury. It was only $50 more than others around the area, probably because it was a Monday night, and even though frugality is our new watchword (our previous watchword was regret) (Our safety word* by the way is, as it always has been, “Oh for the love of God just stop it. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”) we went for it. The second days drive was gorgeous. Lots of high desert rock formations, a stop by the petrified forest, a lovely lush area in northern Arizona where the cactuses (cacti is also correct but rather pretentious don’t you think?) were in bloom.**

I’m not going to go into rhapsodic detail about the Valley Ho because I did all that in the last tour blog,*** but we had a blast. We had fancy drinks, swam in the round saltwater pool under the moonlight, John beat Olie in a foot race across the pool, we joined hands and practiced our synchronized water dancing, the couple attempting to have a romantic interlude, tenderly drifting up to each other and kissing, finally gave up and went to the hot tub.**** After actually hearing people talking earnestly about their golf game at the bar, I went and laid on a lounge, presumably of the chaise variety, by a blue lit fountain and stared at the stars. What a lovely evening.

Tomorrow is L.A.

*Phrase really

** Indulge me please. At this point I was originally just going to write “I’ll see you when the cactus blooms again.” because “When the Roses Bloom Again” kept going through my head. I wanted to listen to the Johnny Cash version, which is devastating, and I came across a song called “When the Bloom Is On the Sage” by the Sons of the Pioneers. I love the Pioneers. I think “Cool Water” is one of the great American songs of all time. Anyway, in the details part on YouTube it says that the song was recorded right up the street from where I’m writing this on Vine Street and Hollywood. That tickled me to no end.

*** It’s all archived on the web site I think.

**** Where they contracted Chlamydia. Or at least that’s what he told her. I never really trusted him.

Tour Diary - Austin (Day 5)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: H-E-B Intense Cheese Flavored Puffs* - Excellent   H-E-B is chain of supermarkets and these were their store brand. And finally a good damn doodle.

Texture: Good – Rougher than a Cheeto, but not enough to abuse your delicate mouth-branes.

Flavor: More salt than cheese but we destroyed this bag. I had to pour bottled water over my fingers to get the orange off. You know what I'm saying'?

Idiocy from the Van: Square Bob Sponge Cake and his best friend Pee-C-Pee-Oh

The drive from Dallas to Austin is fairly short but we dicked around enough to make it seem as endless as a normal day. We went straight to Torchy’s, which is a small chain but is so good. Migas and fried avocado tacos with a side of street corn for me thank you very much.

We went to the club but they weren’t going to be ready for us until 9:00. As Olie was quite keen to see a bit of Austin we went downtown. It was just so hot and parking was its usual nightmare, but when we finally cowboy walked our way to 6th street we heard an Athena level skull splitting racket and whiffed the sharp smell of exhaust. We turned the corner and just like that, a biker rally for Olie! Can’t get more American than that. 6th street was lined on both sides with every kind of chopped crotch hog you could imagine.

The street was blocked off and there were two rows of orange cones down the middle of the street allowing the bikers to promenade in small groups in front of their two-wheeled peers. Mostly this involved revving their engines to create the maximum noise and smell. It was neat to get to see all those people and all those bikes, and I love the sense of community exhibited, but it wore thin pretty quickly for a non-aficionado like myself. So we went inside a fancy hotel and had wee chocolate cakes and éclairs.

Then back up to the Spider Ballroom. The Spider is divided into two sides, the ballroom, which is a standard rectangle with a stage, and the café, which is a series of mostly open to the air spaces with a hodge-podge of weird junk scattered around. I liked it.

My delicate and shame-filled northern sensibilities began to understand the desire to wear as little clothing as possible in this heat. As usual there were hours to kill. It’s too boring to just hang in the club, and you can’t just sit and drink outside with all the sweltering people because of the slippery slope to shitty shows and alcoholism. So I cajoled Olie into walking to the Buffalo Exchange vintage clothing store and Antone’s Record store. Both were fine, I didn’t spend any money, and an hour had passed quite nicely. I took a left out of Antone’s and walked up the sidewalk in order to find a quiet place to call my already-trothed. With my head down I came to the end of the building and found myself surrounded by approximately 100 naked people on bicycles. I froze, turned around like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers, and walked back the way I came as if that was what I had intended all along. Almost immediately the group left the staging area and whooping and hollering rode en masse right passed me on the street. There were as many wangs as tangs, as many guts as gunts, and a relatively wide age range, although they were oddly almost completely homogenous in skin color. Not that it matters a whit, but I have no problem with anything promoting body acceptance; although I was concerned about the bicycle seats. I find them uncomfortable enough to start with without them actually touching my prostate. And how did we get to the point in western culture where something as functional and beautiful as the human breast has become so sexualized that a mother can’t breast feed or young women have to learn how to ignore ogling before they’re out of high school? I’m as guilty of it as the next, but it really is time to cut that shit out.

Residual Kid opened up the show back at the ballroom. They were a trio of youngsters playing pop-punk and they have a good-sized following of their own. I can easily envision them blowing by us in their solid gold bus while we spin our wheels in the ditches of apathy. AWA played even better than the night before. As for us, it was lovely to see such a nice crowd, seeing as we played to five people our last visit to Austin. It was fun. We played a few songs we hadn’t played in awhile, and said goodbye to the small group who had followed us from Tulsa to Dallas and then Austin.

We had had sweaty goodbye with AWA and that was that.

Tomorrow is a drive day.

*Spanish lesson for the day. Botana de Maiz = Cheese Flavored Snack. At least according to the bag. My rudimentary Spanish would indicate that it says snack of corn though. So maybe Hispanic customers are drawn to corn and gringos want cheese?

Tour 2016 - Dallas (Day 4)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: There were none.

So here’s a recipe for making your own! I expect pictures and reviews in the comments section.

http://www.splendidtable.org/recipes/crunchy-cheese-puffs

Idiocy From the Van: Monocle Lewinsky

Our hotel in Tulsa was directly across the road from ORU. No, not The Winnie the Pooh Center for Zen Iconography but Oral Roberts University. For those lucky enough to be ignorant of the Oral’s legacy he was one of the original televangelist preachers, who came up with a version of Christianity whereupon gifts of money to God resulted in tangible blessing from heaven. He was a poor, itinerant Pentacostal preacher, charismatic enough to draw 10,000 people to his tent meetings for faith healings. Eventually, by hiring advertising companies and pioneering direct mail solicitations he became incredibly wealthy. In a bid for respect he founded the Orally Roberted University in the 1960’s. Oral’s son Robert, a twat, spent the University’s money and ran it into the ground by the 1990’s. Then that douche who owns Hobby Lobby gave the University over 50 million dollars and it was restored to its former glory. There’s nothing I can add to the topic of evangelists that a hundred earnest 1980’s songs hasn’t said better. Charlatans preying on the weak. Jesus.

So the reason for that backstory is the architecture of the Uni. It’s awesome. It was designed primarily by Frank Wallace and was in the Futurist style. Admittedly it all looks like the Disney/Epcot view of what the future would be like, but it’s a bright, shiny, golden, angular view nonetheless. The Prayer Tower, modeled off the Seattle Space Needle, is a flying space crown of thorns, with a heavenly tractor beam projecting down to earth in order to lift us up into heaven’s gently probing arms. At least that’s what it looks like to me. The main cathedral is at is heart just an auditorium, but the atrium was really cool with vaulting white triangles and sweeping staircases. Maybe because it’s summer and school is out, but I was virtually alone on campus. Just me and the gardeners piping the tears of fleeced senior citizens onto the Forget-Me-Nots and Jack-in-the Pulpits. I could’ve rolled around naked on the pulpit/stage and no one would’ve said boo.*

I don’t remember much from the drive to Dallas except maybe one of the biggest differences between England and here: the never-ending sprawl that surrounds our cities. Mile after indistinguishable mile of dollar stores in cracked cement strip malls. It’s depressing as hell and creates a longing in me for nature to reassert itself and place our vanities in their proper place. I was also ambivalent about returning to Dallas. Our last show there was one of our worst. The smell of sewage outside the club strong enough to make a Welshman blink, horrible sound, disinterested audience, and we got into a fight onstage. This time we were playing in the Deep Elum area. We were in contact with Olie, who had landed in Dallas earlier that morning and he was reporting that the area around the club was one of the coolest places he’d ever been. We were putting that down to the over-heated excitement at being in a new country because Dallas is, you know, fine. It’s Dallas. We found him at the club and had a huggy, happy reunion; his natural, diffident, British reserve temporarily broken down in a rush of unfamiliar moist emotions. Much like I assume how people reacted to Churchill’s victory speech. “In all our long history we have never seen a day as this!” Or so I assume.

Deep Elum was pretty cool with lots of really good restaurants and bars. It was obvious it would be a better night than our previous Dallas effort. I liked it better during the day before it became a bro-centric entertainment district. Everyone went to the Pecan Lodge for apparently amazing barbecue and I went to Il Cane Rosso and had one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had. Truly.

3 Links is a great rock club, the sound guy was top notch and I loved it there. We had around six hours between soundcheck and playing. Dinner killed some time but there really wasn’t much else to do.** It was hot as the back of Andre the Giant’s balls slung in a singlet on the sun. Fortunately the opener Joe Gorgeous was very good, and the American Werewolf Academy were inspiring. I contend they might be one of the best rock bands working these days. There’s a timeless quality to their songs and they don’t really require any hyphenated descriptors, although they do remind me a bit of an american You Am I.

We played to a good-sized crowd of people largely unfamiliar with our music. It’s a good thing I think. We’re trying to build a following and all. Did it work? I guess we’ll find out when we come back.

Tomorrow is Austin. 

*They’re not booing they’re saying put your damn clothes back on you pudgy bald freek.

** I did go into this vintage toy store and played a game I had never heard of: Baby Pac Man. It’s a combo pinball machine and video game and it was ridiculously difficult. When playing the video game there were no things to eat in order to turn the tables on the ghosts but you could escape down two pathways in the bottom whereupon you would disappear and a pinball would pop out. But there was nothing to bounce the ball off of and the paddle gap was wide.

Tour 2016 - The Great American Cheese Doodle Ranking

Cheese Doodle Ranking 2016

Terms:

Texture – can range from packing peanuts to cylindrical rods of sandpaper roughness. Like what I imagine a cat’s member must be like. If you feel as if the roof of mouth is going to bleed by the end of the bag they’re too rough.

Cheese Profile – is produced by the unique formulations of doodle dust used to coat the doodle. It’s a delicate balance between salt, cheddar and sawdust.

Wise – serviceable

Cheese flavor negligible

Texture pretty good

Herr’s – good

Taste profile is primarily that of salt with soupcon of cheese underneath. Texture rough

Herr’s Honey Cheese – nope

Chuck likes them; I think they’re weird. It’s a doodle coated in brown sugar. Doesn’t even leave your fingers orange.

Carolina Country Snacks Baked Cheese Curls – poor

For all intents and purposes this snack is an orange packing peanut. Smaller than the average doodle, covered in sawdust, and entirely pointless. The bag has Jesus quotes on it, begging the question whether they are praying for our souls or forgiveness.

 High Valley Orchard Spicy Cheese Nuggets. They’re all right. They’re small, like a toddler’s kidney.

Texture: Stale styrofoam

Flavor: The flavor is just like the pizza flavor Combos but really spicy. They inflamed my wretched mouth to such an extent I think they will remain uneaten as well.

 Kitchen Cooked Cheese Kettle Kurls: Just horrible. I ate one and refused to eat another. We threw them away. That’s a damning statement, because after an hour in the van almost anything salty becomes desirable,

Texture: Like that green stuff in the bottom of plant containers. Or time capsule gluten free sponge cake.

Flavor: Fake butter. Seriously.

 Toms – serviceable I guess – I don’t really like them

Tastes like they’re going for a sharp cheddar profile but it ranges from non-existent to an almost sour wisp of cheese. Might be appealing after drinking a lot of beer from a plastic pitcher whilst bowling. Which upon reflection, unless you want to leave your balls* orange would be inadvisable.

Texture is big and kind of rough. Like Garth Brooks scolding his stepchildren in front of a Cinnabon at the mall.

Utz Baked Cheddar Cheese Curls – ultimately disappointing

Cheese flavor is quite good

Texture is a nightmare. It’s like over-cooked air. As if their baking process involves leaving trays of doodle dough inside Chernobyl until they take on the air of a thousand tiny sharpened knives. Plus I’m more nauseous than usual after eating.

*No, I don’t think I’m being subtle.

Tour 2016 - Tulsa (Day 3)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: Flavor Mill Jalapeno Popper Flavored Cheese Curls: I suspect Flavor Mill is a shell brand for a major corporate doodle manufacturer, because they appear at those gas stations that only carry Frito-Lay products. And because the core doodle underneath the fake jalapeno flavor is very Cheetos-esque.

Texture: Good – Like a Cheeto.

Flavor: Once again the damn pursuit of mouth pain ruins the subtle delights of powdered cheese.

Idiocy from the Van: “Could you all hate me so I can go home?”

Our sub-Blanche DuBois hotel fun continued with John waking up to this window washer singing “I’ve got the perfect body” over and over while understandably lingering outside John’s room.* I still couldn’t find much to do but went inside the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial Museum. (Or the JNEMM for short) This is where you go to buy your tickets to the arch, and there’s a little bit of a museum there as well. A very little bit of museum. Maybe it’s temporary because of the construction but my kid’s junior high history fair was more trenchant and illuminating. The actual fascinating event that took place there was the Dred Scott court case. And I must say in the museum’s defense the preserved courtrooms are pretty cool. There is a hallway (albeit a short one) devoted to this momentous event, but when I went to the museum’s web site I read this quote:

“Although few whites considered the human factor in Dred Scott's slave suit, today we acknowledge that it is wrong to hold people against their will and force them to work as people did in the days of slavery.”

Really? We acknowledge that it is wrong? No. It was an egregious moral failing that led to one of the worst human rights catastrophe’s this country has committed. It’s this kind of tepid response that allows apologists to continue to exist. This country’s refusal to truly acknowledge (uttered bitterly) the unbroken sequence of abuse prevents us from healing. I’m not talking about obscure or alternative history here: slavery, Reconstruction, lynchings, Jim Crow, bombings, high-pressure hoses, and on and on until today, are events well documented. Those last few happened during my lifetime. We have to do better.

And then we drive to Tulsa. The countryside south of St. Louis was pretty, green, and kind of lush, but the majority of Missouri on this route was indistinguishable from a lot of Ohio. Rolling grassy hills with small patches of trees scattered about. We left the highway briefly for a short jaunt on the famed Highway 66. Which looked suspiciously like a road. That people drive on. The reason for the departure was we wanted to go to the Uranus Fudge Factory. Obviously a tourist trap but we were willing to bite. There were dinosaurs in the parking lot and a double decker bus. All the obvious touchstones of Americana. And then when you walk in the store the poor lady at the counter says, “Welcome to Uranus.” To every single customer. You know how when Wesley was saying, “As you wish” he was really saying, “I love you”? Well when this young lady said, “Welcome to Uranus” what she was really saying was, “Kill me. Please.” I really thought I would enjoy the place but somehow the over-commercialization of the Uranus joke made me sad. Combining Uranus and Fudge onto a t-shirt is just too obvious. Besides, they didn’t sell any fudge with corn in it, so authenticity was obviously not a going concern. If it wasn’t for the Monkfish it would have been a disappointing venture. Our next stop was the Kum & Go gas station/convenience store. Oklahoma has some things to work through.

Upon arrival we had time to check in to the hotel before heading to the club, and while standing at the front desk a 75-year old gentleman with charisma to spare approached the other desk worker.

“Well that was a huge mistake”

“Sir?”

“I’m getting too old for this. I’m 75 years old.”

“Really? You look good!”

“Ah well it’s all rotten on the inside.”

“Oh come now…”

“Have you ever heard of Swift airplanes? I’ve been flying one for 45 years. Well they’re having a get together for the 70-year anniversary of when they started making them, and I decided to fly my plane to it.”

“You flew here?
“Yep, I’ve been bouncing and short hopping all the way from Las Vegas to Tulsa. Still have 600 miles to go.”

“Oh! So you live in Vegas? What’s that like?”

“I hate it. Used to love it though. There’s 2.5 million people there now. When I moved to Vegas there was only 75,000. I met my wife there. She was a showgirl at the Lido.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas.”

“Oh you should go once to experience it.”

“”I don’t think I’ll make it. My sisters swore they’d never go.”

“Back then $4.95 would get you a prime rib and a show at the Lido. Little did I know, 10 years later I’d be marrying that showgirl. What I need now is a hot shower. Flying that plane - it’s always hot or cold and windy.”**

I think I remember him saying somewhere in there that he had been in the Air Force and had worked at Area 51. How I would’ve loved to have a drink with that guy.

Load-in at the club was 9:00, which is rather late, and when we pulled up John jumped out of the van to see what was going on. He came back a few minutes later and said, “We should probably just leave. There’s a band breaking down in there and the drummer isn’t wearing a shirt, the bartender is wearing a wet suit, no one has any idea what’s going on, and everyone is unfriendly.” We didn’t leave of course, but walked in and saw there was no stage, no monitors, and only a few microphones. We drew a breath, reminded ourselves that for most of our benighted career every show was like this, and to not be all soft. Still, we approached the evening with a little bit of trepidation. It was to be our first of three shows with the American Werewolf Academy, the gents Lisa and Chuck travelled with on their duo tour in the UK a few years back, and it was lovely to see them again. The club was two doors down from Cain’s Ballroom, a famous venue that goes back to Bob Wills, but has also hosted the Sex Pistols and Wilco. Up the street the other way was the Woody Guthrie Center, which was of course closed. Someday I’d really love to go there. Woody is my kind of hero. This section of Tulsa was interesting and arty, with the Philbrook Museum, a nice green space with lots of people hanging out, a Jazz museum in the old Art Deco train depot. Stuff like that.

When I got back to the club patrons were shooting off fireworks in the abandoned parking lot next to the back patio, and everyone seemed to view this exciting combination of alcohol and explosives as not only desirable but not even notable. We had to pre-set all our gear in the parking lot next to the club (but separate from the fireworks) because there was no room inside. We turned on the three microphones set up in front of the speakers, (which is a very feedback prone configuration) adjusted our instruments accordingly, and it ended up sounding amazing. Sometimes it seems with our music that it sounds better when all the sound is coming from one condensed space. Anyway, there were not a lot of people in attendance but the ones that were there were die-hard and generous with their praise and merch purchases.

Tomorrow is Dallas

*John keeps himself quite fit

**I apologize for getting any of the facts wrong. I was eavesdropping after all.

Tour 2016 - St. Louis (Day 2)

Ranking Cheese Doodle: High Valley Orchard Spicy Cheese Nuggets. They’re all right. They’re small, like a toddler’s kidney.

Texture: Stale styrofoam

Flavor: The flavor is just like the pizza flavor Combos but really spicy. They inflamed my wretched mouth (see previous post) to such an extent I think they will remain uneaten as well.

Idiocy from the Van: Egregious Philbin

We drove the four hours from Davenport to St. Louis the night before and still got in around 10:00. We were staying at a hotel right near the arch. A hotel whose scratched hallways and undusted chandeliers echoed with the laughter and sighs of a more beautiful, elegant era. Like say 2006. The employees dragging through their assigned duties like the crew of the Titanic if it had taken 6 years to sink rather than 2 hours and 40 minutes. Case in point: The boxer shorts and washcloth crumpled on the floor by the ice machine that weren’t removed for almost 24 hours. I could almost deal with the shorts, as they were flannel and flannel seems benign, but it was the washcloth in conjunction with the boxers that worried me. It was an upscale hotel going to seed almost everywhere you looked. The best example of this was the huge patio on the second floor,easily the size of a football field, with rotting gravelly cement and scrubby shrubbery. And in the center was a structure that looked like it had jumped to its death during construction and just landed apropos of nothing right in the middle. Obviously it used to be used for special functions, what with it’s lovely view of the arch, but now was full of ripped curtains, knocked over chairs, peeling walls, and a trail mix of dust and droppings.

And then John was outside the hotel early in the morning smoking a cigarette and a fellow comes up to him and tells him he’s Tim Burton’s brother. He was wearing sandals showcasing his blistery feet, a thick gold chain, and a red baseball shirt. I wasn’t there so I’ll paraphrase to the best of my ability.

“I’m Tim Burton’s brother. I’m actually a millionaire, but the film industry is such a cash heavy game I don’t have access to it right now. Do you have a cigarette? I make documentaries. “What kind of documentaries? “ Oh well ummm… you know about like selling drugs……… and ummm…. prostitutes. “

He told John that he had started a bunch of companies and gave him his e-mail. John later looked them up and there was a whole page of fake LLC’s. I kind of admire his approach though. It’s that kind of chutzpah that can take a bum and elevate him to a hobo.

I wanted to go up in the arch as I’ve never done that, but the whole park is under massive construction for its 50th anniversary. Pretty much everything of interest downtown was fenced off. The mix of architectural styles and ages bore a striking similarity to Cincinnati, with some German, the odd Art Deco, and a few modern glass corporate trifles thrown in. The odd thing to me was how few people were out and about on Wednesday afternoon. I walked around for a while but never found anything open except a lovely little sculpture garden with public swimming fountains full of kids. The thing is I’ve been to St. Louis several times and I know there are wonderful parts. I love the Soulard Farmer’s Market, Forest Park with its free museums, and the Delmar district. It’s once again the curse of how everything gets so spread out. They were miles away, not really walkable destinations, with the only public transportation being the bus. And there are few things more impenetrable than local bus routes to a visitor. Outside of a few major cities, the U.S. really forces one to drive.

Then we were off to Off Broadway for the show. We were playing Twangfest, a yearly Americana festival celebrating its 20th year. I think this is our third time playing it and for the life of us we don’t know why they keep asking us back. They’ve even had us play their show at SXSW a couple of times. It’s a super well run festival and we’ve always been treated incredibly well. Last time we played with Kelly Hogan and this time James McMurtry. So, not too bad there. I think my favorite thing about the Twangfest audience is that the people who support and attend something like this for 20 years are foremost music fans. The kinds of people who collect records, read reviews, and argue about different line-ups. We played the Off Broadway a long, almost forgotten time ago and it’s turned into a wonderful venue. They’ve built a little courtyard with chairs, a fire pit, and an outside covered bar. The room sounds great and has a balcony. Before the set I went and walked around the neighborhood. It was eerie, but once again there was almost no one around. The houses were mostly well kept with flower boxes watered and such, but no one was outside. It was a little unnerving.

Oh and the show was just wonderful. The sound was clear and perfect onstage and the crowd was super enthusiastic. The cheers at the end of “Teenage Wasteland” made us feel like The Who. An absolutely perfect way to start the tour in earnest.

Tomorrow is Tulsa.

Tour 2016 - Daytrotter (Day 1)

Back in the U.S.S.A

Salty Snack of the Day: Is dead. Long live the great 2016 U.S. Cheese Doodle Census! We actually started this on our spring break run of shows. I can’t guarantee one every day as regionalism in the U.S. is a dying thing. They will be compiled in a separate post, but the ultimate goal is to elevate the doodle to the lofty, snooty heights of gas station wine. We will fling words like mouth feel and bouquet around like a Whole Foods sommelier.

Kitchen Cooked Cheese Kettle Kurls: Just horrible. I ate one and refused to eat another. We threw them away. That’s a damning statement, because after an hour in the van almost anything salty becomes desirable,

Texture: Like that green stuff in the bottom of plant containers. Or time capsule sponge cake.

Flavor: Fake butter. Seriously. Because the world needs a doodle that tastes like kettle corn.

Idiocy from the Van:

Terrence Trent D’Arby’s or Terrence Trent D’Roy Rogers

I’ve thought a lot about whether to continue writing the blog for the domestic portion of our tour. But when the truth of the fact of the matter is I write this for something to do, and not for any potential phantasmal readers, I know it's going to happen anyway. In order to do this though, I need some sort of frame of reference. A reference point. A point blank (I could play this game all day!) enough to encompass the autumnal regret of Springsteen with the impotent longing Reeves and Swayze, but not whomever they cast in that reboot of Point Blank. (Chuck just reminded me the movie was called Point Break but I'm not changing it because it just doesn't matter) Because are we really so bereft of creativity that we need to remake what is at best a cheese-bag movie? I’m sort of willing to accept Disney flipping cartoons onto the stage like Howard Hill adding a coat of paint to a murder house and calling it new, but only because I gather the staging is outstanding. I mean we’re averaging one original and impactful musical a decade now. "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" in the ‘90’s, "Wicked" in the 2000’s, and now "Hamilton," which I haven’t seen. A golden era this is not.

Anyway, the point I was trying to make is this is our third western adventure and I don’t want to repeat myself too much. Combine that with how utterly lovely every little thing seemed in England, and I wondered if it would be possible to view this trip with the perspective of a foreigner. Seeing as the pair of eyes I scooped out of a hobo in Piccadilly Square with a spoon went bad, (they’re way more delicate than kidneys) I will use the eyes of Olie! Yes! Olie is joining us for most of this tour. (You might remember Olie from such roles as being our driver in England.)

As we get ready to leave, the current state of Wussy is as follows: the band is financially strapped, (nothing new) everyone in the band is broke, the stress of finishing up the school year, trying to get everything done around the house, the guilt of leaving my kids during summer break, my dear wife carrying all the weight of keeping the family and house running. I’m not handling it well. I wish I was, but it’s been a month at least since I haven’t taken some sort of antacid every day. The net result of all this is that I have entered into a pitched battle with my tongue. I’m sure there’s a name for that piece of skin behind your two front teeth, and I hope that it sounds vaguely inappropriate like myoeatmymeatrium. Regardless, mine started hurting and I hadn’t even gotten a tortilla chip stuck up in it. I noticed that my tongue seemed to be pretty much stuck to the roof of my mouth all the time. Is it supposed to be? Is it always there? If it’s always there then why is the roof of my mouth hurting. I don’t think it is supposed to be up there all the time. I think it’s supposed to be resting peacefully in the bottom of the mouth. After all there seems to be a nice place carved out for it. It’s a horrible thing to be aware of your tongue. In trying to relax my face and get my tongue to settle back in it’s tongue-cave I now realize I have this large, wet, dangly thing in my mouth and now it needs to be told what to do. Great. And that’s only the tip of iceberg A-42*. I could make a list I tell ya.

We left at the ungodly hour of 8 am for the seven hour drive to Davenport.*  This then would seem to be an excellent chance to practice my new open and naïve approach to seeing my country. Then I thought maybe I would start in Illinois. Because Indiana. I’m not a hero. I’m just one man.

Illinois seen from I-74 is rather nice. There are not much livestock visible, just unimaginable miles of young green corn plants. The fields of England are parceled out in tidy, eccentric packages bound by hedges and populated with small furry animals. That’s another early impression: the sides of the highways seem less tidy than in England. But how could it be otherwise? There is approximately 6.5 million miles of roads in the U.S. as opposed to not quite 400,000 in the U.K. We have the largest network of roads in the world.

Davenport is one of the Quad Cities, which also includes Bettendorf on the Iowa side of the Mississippi with Moline and Rock Island on the Illinois side. I asked someone how long it would take to go from say Davenport to Moline if you wanted to see a show. He said, “Oh, maybe 15 minutes.” So even though one of the recurring themes this tour is going to be how freaking yuge*** this country is, the Quad cities are fairly small. Davenport, described as pretty sleepy by a local, is showing signs of an uptick in shit going on. There’s barcade with Chexx Hockey (way better than foosball), a cool hipster tap room, and of course Daytrotter. Daytrotter has been recording sessions for a long time (since 2006). In the past they used to put the sessions on vinyl but now they make them available online. It’s treated like a real recording studio session with lots of care given to isolating the instruments and getting really good sounds. It was fun and having to focus in so much in order to sound like we know what we’re doing was an excellent way to get us back in touring fettle. They’ve also recently opened up a performance space, which is gorgeous. Then we ate Chipotle, died inside a little, and drove to St. Louis.

*I was going to give the iceberg a name. A name that would reflect my current state of mind. It turns out however, there is already a system in place for naming them. The National Ice Center monitors and names all icebergs 10 nautical miles or longer along one axis. They are assigned a letter depending on the point of origin.

 A – longitude 0° to 90° W (Bellingshausen Sea, Weddell Sea)

B – longitude 90° W to 180° (Amundsen Sea, Eastern Ross Sea)

C – longitude 90° E to 180° (Western Ross Sea, Wilkes Land)

D – longitude 0° to 90° E (Amery Ice Shelf, Eastern Weddell Sea)

I chose the longitude for Cincinnati in naming my ‘berg.

** Davenport is what my Grandmother called couches.

*** huge

Tour 2016 - London (Days 14-16)

Salty Snack of the Day: Howdah Onion Bhaji – Kind of the shape and texture of sesame sticks but a rice based snack. Delicious but spicy as all get out.

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Bloody – I didn’t hear it once. Has this most British of institutions fallen by the wayside? Is it what the biddies mutter under their breath when the price of porridge goes up by two pence? Is it the consarnit or balderdash of England? I really fucking hope not.

Birds: Robin – I really wanted to see one and I did it! Oddly the robin is part of the chat family here but the blackbird is part of the thrush family.

(Seen in the Royal Gardens) Pochard, Barnacle Goose, Goldeneye, Pelicans (introduced in 1664 as a gift from the Russian ambassador)

These are not show days and Joe and his “wife” are already in Bath for the duration. Monday was very simply driving, going to George and Jan’s place, returning rented gear, figuring out paperwork, then heading to the hotel. We were out by some airport with nothing to walk to, so we ended up staying in for the evening, drinking beer in the hotel café and hanging out with Olie for the last time this tour.

This then would seem a good time to sing the praises of our man-crush Olie. His job is to drive us to and from gigs. The fact that he helped us load-in\out, set-up and tear down gear, sell merch, run and get food, and act as tour guide just shows how much he went above and beyond the call of duty. And in the grand tradition of British comedians he deployed a wide range of accents, voices, and silly walks to keep us pissing ourselves laughing. We lucked out.

As for the rest of the last two days I went full on tourist. I’m just going to list everything I saw and keep descriptions to a minimum. I’m already walking a thin line between Rick Steves and middle-aged man slide show.* I will say that London more than lived up to its reputation as one of the worlds great cities. There was a point where I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear the English language for an hour, but instead a steady flow of languages that were melodiously unfamiliar. It felt like a literal crossroads to the world and I loved it. John E. will hopefully post a recording he made when he was standing on the sidewalk listening to the sound of Indian music being performed in someone’s apartment above him. Some men walking up to the building asked if he liked music and of course John said yes. So then, at 2:00 in the morning no less, they invited him to come up and listen. He got to play a harmonium and talk with everyone.

Tuesday:
My cold was at its worse and I was probably hungover. London was as gloomy as a Death Eater’s mixer after the bridge mix has run out, and promised rain and humidity in spades all day.

• Navigated Tube successfully. (Thanks Harry Beck!)

• Trafalgar Square for coffee, writing, recovering, and realizing there were far too many tourist groups around to even fathom.

• Walking away from people took me to St. James Royal Gardens with all the Royal birds, Royal grass, Royal bird poop distributed with the enthusiasm, dedication, and equality of a Communist’s wet dream, Royal Cigarette butts, Royally brazen squirrels, etc.

• Churchill’s Bunker Museum. Really expensive. Good museum on the man’s life and visits to the map room and such are very cool. But really expensive.

• Buckingham Palace. There was long line of posh, white people in coattails and hats and frumpy dresses and hats holding invitations. Turns out it was a big tadoo for the Queen’s 90th I left the Princess Di latch-hook rug I made in 1997 against the gate and walked away feeling closure at last.

• Parliament House and Big Ben

• Tube to Picadilly Square

• The Royal Society!! Did I mention it was my birthday? Well here was my gift to myself. There was a talk open to the public that night. The Royal Society came into existence in 1660 and has done things like publish Newton’s ‘Principa Mathematica” and Hooke’s “Micrographia.” (there was a small exhibit on that as well) The talk this evening was by the 2015 Wilkins-Bernal-Medawar prize winner Professor Hasok Chang and was titled, “Who Cares About the History of Science?” It was a wonderful talk even when I didn’t understand it. So cool to be there.

• End of tour celebratory dinner with George and Jan in East London.

Wednesday

• Walked to the Rough Trade Record Store in the Brick Lane part of London, and then all around the neighborhood. East London reminds me of Brooklyn with its transitional areas and hipsters.

• Decided I would walk the two miles to The Tate Modern so as to see more of London. Was supposed to take 40 minutes but didn’t pay enough attention to maps and it took two very wet hours. Still, I saw what felt like the financial part of Manhattan, with lots of cool modern buildings and people looking smart and business-ey.

• I have to admit I was hurting by the time I got to the Tate. Throbbing feet, sweaty, wet, and just kind of spent. The rest of the day, however wonderful, would take on a slight Bataan sheen.

• The Tate was under renovation but the collection was lovely. Lots of classics but also a nice focus on the incredible power of protest and social commentary that the visual arts can achieve maybe better than the other fine arts. The building felt a little austere with mile after mile of white walls and black beams.

• Met John and Lisa at St. Paul’s Cathedral** for evening choir service. The choir was all male with voices ranging from pre-change to change the channel – that hippie David Attenborough is on. Those voices in that space was profoundly moving and deeply beautiful. We all three wiped tears away and I would’ve likely begun sobbing except for being mostly dead inside. Afterwards the only woman involved in the performance of the service was greeting people and I stopped to thank her. She then said an amazing thing to me. “Do you teach people to sing?” I was surprised at this leap of intuition and told her yes and who I taught. We then had a lovely talk about how the arts are being cut in England, just as in the States, and all the reasons why music is so profoundly important to our core humanity. She said they were sending out a choirmaster to the poorer communities to try and fill in a little of what is being lost. The older I get, the greater the import of service to others seems to be. Connections between people and peoples have to be forged, they don’t just happen without effort.

• Came across where Sherlock fell from St. Barts.

• Walked across Millenium Bridge on a day the Dementors held in thrall, and then peeped on the Globe Theater.

*I can’t define redundancy but I know it when I see it.

** I chose cake but they were out. Damn.

Tour 2016 - Bristol (Day 13)

Salty Snack of the Day: Pipers Wissington Tomato – It tastes like tomatoes. I love tomatoes. I hated these. Every time I tried to eat them it was like a crispy stone falling through the good parts of my soul and taking a little bit with it. I suddenly wanted to feed puppies chocolate and read Rod McKuen’s poetry to shut-ins. Did not finish.

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Birmingham Twat – Not a thing in and of itself I assume. However whenever one of us would say Birmingham Olie would affect a mocking nasal American accent and say “BermingHAM” making the ham sound like the salty meat. One is supposed to pronounce it as if the word is being swallowed as it’s being spoken. “Brmnhmm.” But if one said twat like hot he would say, “No. Twat like hat.” Honestly.

Birds: Swallow

This will be the shortest post of the tour as it took nine hours to get from Edingburgh to Bristol. We climbed back into the silver bullet of hate and set out.

In the U.S. if you want to stop and make, or get fuel and food, you just get off at an exit and avail yourself of whatever is there. In the U.K. they’re called Services and they were lifesavers. It’s set up closer to the way say the Pennsylvania Turnpike has their service plazas. Daily we lived off of good fresh sandwiches and readymade salads like Beets with Feta from M&S or Witherspoons. Olie, however had been telling us that there is one service stop that was the greatest in the whole country.

It’s somewhere in Cumbria and it’s magical. Plates of sweet, bakery treats great you. There’s a shop with good cheese and wine, and the café has vegetarian lasagna, sausages, fresh peas with mint. Is a big deal? No? Yes? * Ok, imagine you’re travelling for 9 hours on the highways of America and surviving off of gas station snacks or fast food. It’s horrible and you end up feeling like shit. Now imagine a Whole Foods with all the smugness sucked out like meat from Jack Klugman’s colon. That’s this place in a nutshell. But even the regular U.K services I mentioned before are packed with fresh food. No wonder the United States has eating problems. I’m writing this as we drive back to Cincinnati from NYC and the only kind of fresh food I can find is yogurt, boiled eggs in a bag, Cracker Barrel cheese rectangles and carrot sticks. It’s enraging. We’ve been trying to strategize how to eat healthy while touring this summer and all we can figure out is to bring a cooler, find grocery stores, and make our own breakfasts and lunches. Hell, even Starbucks, who I am no great fan of, has vastly more fresh options in the U.K.

Anyway, you can imagine how bedraggled** we looked as we pulled up to the Fleece in Bristol. Last show of the tour, hostel sleep the night before, fighting colds; we were a fright. We were ending the tour the way we began by opening up for Shonen Knife. It’s a fairly famous Bristol venue and bigger than we would play on our own. (for instance Icicle Works are playing there SOOON!***) Big box, older building, audibly sticky floors; classic club in other words. Leggy, the Cincinnati trio traveling the island the same time as us, opened the show and played such an energetic, awesomely rocking set I went out to the van and said we were in danger of getting blown off the stage. And thank God for it, because it was just the kick in the ass we needed to finish the tour strong. We had no soundcheck and limited time so we dispensed with our usual pleasantries and made as much noise as we could for 45 minutes. It was a bigger crowd than Gateshead and they were far more responsive. We did a run and gun; loading straight out and leaving right away, dead on our feet.

I went on a short walk and right near the club was an active archaeological dig of a site going back to mediaeval times. Of course it was happening so someone can build on top of it, but I’m guessing you can’t plant a tulip without coming across history in this country.

A block or two away from a picturesque bridge crossing what I think is the river Avon, I found the closed St. Nicholas Market, which was started in 1743, but that was all I really had time to see.

Tomorrow is back to London and taking care of business in the non-Elvis, more Colonel Tom Parker way.

*Written in an Italian accent. Go back and read it that way. It’s works better.

** Did you know draggled was a word? It means to soil by dragging over wet or dirty ground.

***When I wrote that in Word, I started the phrase at a font size of 8 and every word got bigger so it was just like a Whisper to a Scream. I can't figure out how to do that in WordPress but I just wanted you to know that I was trying.

Tour 2016 - Edinburgh (Day 12)

Salty Snack of the Day: Seabrook (Lovingly made in Yorkshire) Sea Salt and Vinegar – Handed to me as the van door opened in Edinborough. Salt and Vinegar in the UK are much less intense than at home. You can actually eat them without opening up sores in your mouth. This is an excellent chip.

 Britishisms Heard Uttered: Chuffed – “I’m right chuffed by that!”

 Birds: Black-Headed Gull, Little Tern, (I felt confident at the time at least) Red Kite, Pheasant (dead), Oystercatcher, Jackdaw

Today was to be our last headlining show and our only one in Scotland. But before that all sorts of epic, potentially dangerous, undoubtedly heroic things would have to happen. Like Olie getting up far too early to take the ailing van to the garage, then taking a cab back to the hotel to pick Chuck and I up, (because we’re just slightly less heroic- like that sycophantic Samwise Clamcheese from the Lord of the Flies) The upside to not remaining cozily enrobed in a Travelodge duvet like the lazy bastards who are everyone else, is that I got to see a little more of the actual city of Birmingham. We were staying in an industrial area with the Land Rover/Jaguar factory right next door. We never went through the city center but moved into an area that increasingly looked like an American city. It wasn’t just the litter and graffiti, or the barbwire and sketchy looking buildings, or even the palpable sense if diminished opportunities… Oh wait, yes it was. I am not saying Birmingham is like that. I’m just saying this street was. And of course this is where the rental place was. It was a dirty, piece of shit place and if I could remember the name I’d launch a flame war against them and their shoddy business. Even though we were paying 100 pounds a day and there were Transit vans onsite, they gave us an old LDV with an empty tank, no washer fluid, the engine check light on, and hard plastic city-bus like seats that wouldn’t fold down or adjust. So needless to say (he said) loading in gear was annoying as hell. We had to line the seats with pillows or parts of our bodies would begin to seize up within 15 minutes.

Anyway, enough of that. We had about a seven-hour drive to Edinburgh and we were of course late. Flash forward a few hours and we entered the region of Cumbria. From here until we arrived the scenery became more beautiful with every mile. Rolling hills, green green fields, cascading streams, stone walls containing regular sheep and the long hairy kind as well as long hairy Highland cattle. Plus, actual cool birds! By the time we got to Scotland the roads were too curvy to write and the buildings and villages looked hewn from a time so long past you expected to see broadswords and buboes. My father had told me Scotland was maybe the favorite place he’d visited in the world, with its unearthly beauty and decent, open people. I see what he means.

As we approached our venue in Edinburgh, The Electric Circus, the architecture made the inhabitants of the van sound like slack-jawed yocals watching a fireworks display.

After a quick load-in Olie, Lisa, and I went for our usual one-hour to see a town walk. We walked by the Gothic tower created as a tribute to Robert Shaw,* and began walking up the hill towards the Edinburgh Castle. There was a long set of stairs and it was satisfying to see everyone walking up on the left. It’s a chicken and egg thing isn’t it? Does the side of the street you drive upon influence the side of a walkway or staircase you walk down, or the other way around? (Potential doctoral thesis anyone?)

Anyway, Lisa and I bought tartan scarves because Scotland, and as we re-entered the street we heard the sound of bagpipes coming from the direction of the Castle. Lisa took off running. I didn’t because my cool, dispassionate demeanor simply does not allow it. We never figure out why, but in front of the Castle was not just a group of piping baggers but local bugle and drum corps. They played music that alternated between triumphant and plaintive while executing parade maneuvers that would have made Dr. Heimlich faint with pleasure. Arguable highlight of the tour.

The Electric Circus is an interesting mix of intended audiences. They have private karaoke rooms, which seemed to be the focus of many hen-dos. These were different from the Cardiff hen-dos, which were patently silly and involved props and costumes. These parties were executed by fiercely intense women dressed to the nines, wearing high heels that would make Isachar Zacharie roll over in his grave,** and woe to those who would stand in their way. Like me for instance as I was standing in front of a door looking through the small window into a mysterious hallway with glowing doors on either side. “All right, let us through,” commanded a voice that surely in a past life conjured up sand storms with which to bury invading armies. I found myself inexplicably bowing and scraping in obsequious retreat. I am not mocking these women. They are awesome. At the end of the evening as they left the club with relaxed smiles and arms around each others shoulders, obviously heroically drunk, they were still gliding over the cobblestones in those impossible heels as if they were wearing slippers on Sunday morning.

And then we get on stage and the audience begins to cheer us with the vigor of most crowds when they hear the harmonica at a Billy Joel concert and they’re like “Oh my God – he’s playing Piano Man! I didn’t think he was going to do it and then bam – first encore!” This was our 13th show in 12 days. We’ve never done that before. We usually have a day off tucked in there somewhere and we were on fumes.*** So it was purely the energy of the audience that turned this into one of the best, most memorable shows of the tour. People arm in arm singing along, a roar of cheers after every song. In general, the British audiences are unsurprisingly a little more reserved than in the States (as well as not talking loudly through every song by every performer) but the Scottish threw that all out the window. It was a joyous experience. About halfway through the set Lisa said, “Ah, so this is where our people come from. This is like playing at home.”

After the set we ate Nandos (3rd time) in the apartment/green room a few doors down from the club.**** The night before I’d woken up several times with a sore throat and it was now apparent that it was here to stay. Also, and wait for this, the entire band, Olie, and Joe’s “wife” were sleeping in bunk beds in one room at the hostel across the street. I had vowed I would drink good single malt scotch while in Scotland and a stiff bit of courage before the hostile seemed appropriate. And while I’m not a whiskey drinker I could get used to that.

View from a Hostel. (Second best Kim Wilde song)

The hostel experience can be summed up in this one interaction. As Chuck, John and I were bringing guitars up to the room, we went through yet another door (there was one every five feet I swear) into another narrow hallway, when a beautiful young women steps out of the showers in a towel. Us three middle-aged men immediately averted our eyes and begin shuffling to try to get out of her way. Of course we’d completely jammed up the space like Michael Jordan and realized the only way out was forward. As we went through at least two more doors she resignedly followed us while we issued forth mumbled, “sorrys and almost theres.” We felt like oafs. The night passed in a chorus of snores and bunk bed head smashed curses. It was ridiculous and hilarious and thank God the only one on the tour. 

Tomorrow is Bristol.

*Sir Walter Scott in truth, but I accidentally wrote Robert Shaw. Don’t you love him? Of course Jaws, but Force 10 from Navarone, Taking of Pelham 1,2,3 (everything I do is funky like Lee Dorsey) Anyway, at 200 feet 6 inches it’s the largest monument to a writer in the world. It was supposed to only be 200 feet but his wife asked for just six inches more.

**President Lincoln’s foot doctor. I just spent the last 15 minutes reading about him. Cool story.

*** Not literally. We don’t advocate or partake in huffing.

**** Quick aside. In the van John typically sat up front with Olie and they got on like a house on fire. One day we heard the sound of goats screaming from Olie’s phone and those two almost crying from laughing. Jump back to the green room. Bands are given one key and when you enter you climb a winding set of stairs. As it turns out the doorbell wasn’t working. So as some of us are sitting up there, most likely in a stupor, we hear the surprisingly loud sound of a goat screaming. I run down the stairs and there is Olie summoning us through the mail slot while everyone else is doubled over on the very pubic sidewalk laughing. Maybe one of those you had to be there moments but definitely an entry into the band pantheon.